


all is calm (all is bright)

by orphan_account



Category: Castle
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, Gen, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 18:33:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas Eve, and Castle can't sleep. Prequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1163073">i love you much (most beautiful darling)</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all is calm (all is bright)

* * *

It's Christmas Eve, and Castle can't sleep. Tossing and turning against the soothing warmth of a pillow that beckons him, wide-awake, toward rest, the hours pass in red numbers on his nightstand. Sleep is loathe to come. Outside of the thick comforter the room is just on this side of warm, just enough to hint at the cold kept at bay. He watches what he can of the moon's arc across the sky through a small gaps in the curtains. It's a peculiar sort of sleeplessness, foreign in that it is contemplative rather than the remnants of burst nightmares or 3 a.m. fears.

He keeps to one side of the mattress, curbing carefully the urge to toss and turn to keep from waking Kate. Eventually, though, he tires of lying across his right side. Slowly, so as not to disturb the mattress too much, he shifts to face her.

Or, he would have, if she were in bed at the present moment. Instead, he's surprised to find her side of the bed empty. Had he briefly fallen asleep without recognizing it, missed her getting up? Maybe she, too, is wired tonight, unable to sleep. A hand on the indent her body left behind confirms his suspicions. Cold. She's not been there for a while.

From under the covers he pulls himself curiously up to investigate, and makes his way softly down the polished wood hall on bare feet.

He turns the corner to find her on the sofa across from the Christmas tree. Still faintly steaming on the side table to her right is a mug filled with liquid — decaffeinated coffee, maybe. Or tea. Her knees are drawn up at her chest and the corners of her mouth lift when he walks in. The hanging lights from the tree cast soft lights across her eyes and cheeks.

"Hey," he says. Coming up to the couch from behind, he bends to drop a light kiss to her hair. "Couldn't sleep?"

"No," she says as he walks around the back of the couch to join her on the other side, settling himself in beside her. "You?"

She leans into him, bumping his cheek gently with the top of her head as she does. Tucks her feet into the corner of the sofa where the cushion meets the back meets the arm, comfortably buried in a age-bleached sleep-sweater that smells a little bit like her shampoo and a lot like him.

"Nah," he says, half-into her hair. "Must've been all the excitement."

She hums in agreement, the vibration of it soft against his shoulder. They carried on the tradition of opening presents with Martha and Alexis —her father, Jim, an addition to the past few Christmases, as well— on Christmas Eve rather than Christmas Day itself. Alexis had left relatively early to make it to a party uptown; Martha and Jim, later on.

He wraps an arm around her when she settles her head into his neck, and together they sit like this in the silence. Outside the window, the weather doesn't seem to be shaping up into a white Christmas, but the billowing, night-sky clouds cast a sort of frosted glow over the buildings and sidewalks all the same. Inside, though, there are no traces of the cold. A soft fire burns low in the fireplace. It lends a warm glow to the interior of the living room, and he marvels at the bits of it that reflect in the light places in her hair, bed-rumpled and soft. Yes, they like this, peacefully and almost-but-not-quite-dozing, for a while.

It's a long time before she breaks the silence.

She says, "I got you something," as if she'd forgotten, but he looks over just in time to catch the nervous light in her eyes. The one that means she's been working herself up to say something for a while.

"I thought we agreed neither of us needed anything store-bought this year," he says, perplexed. Shifting, to get a better view of her face.

She swallows once.

"I know," she says. Aiming for reassuring, but she's biting at her lower lip. "This is homemade," she clarifies.

"Technically, that's cheating," he says, slowly, "but for the sake of our marriage, I'll allow it." Equal parts utterly lost and intrigued.

It must be apparent on his face. Cautiously, beginning of a little smile starts to get the better of her, clearing away some of the hesitation from her eyes.

"So, what is it?" he asks, attempting to gauge her expression from under raised eyebrows. Watching for nuances. "Hints, or do I have to guess?"

In response, she carefully extricates herself from his arms.

"Please," she says, with a little laugh. Standing, stretching, and her back cracks a little. "I don't want to _think_ about how long that would take."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asks, feigning injury. Already missing the warmth of her against his side, however temporary the absence may be.

"It _means_ ," she says, with a spark in her eye, "that you're not nearly as good a present-guesser as you think you are, Mr. Castle. Wait here," she instructs, and heads toward the kitchen.

Curiouser and curiouser. His eyes follow her to one particular cabinet, half-obscured by her body as she pulls something, barely within even her reach, from the top shelf. It closes again with a slight _snick._

He makes a mental note to check later for other hiding places among the various kitchen drawers and cupboards.

She comes back with a small, slim box. All smooth corners and a ribbon right-side up, it's tastefully wrapped. In sharp contrast to his own style, which consists mainly of haphazard bows and tape strategically placed to ensure maximum time—anticipation benefit. (One among many reasons his wife had strongly insisted upon taking over gift-wrapping responsibilities this year.)

"Go ahead and open it," she says, placing it gently in his hand. Nibbling at her lip again as she sits back down beside him, a nervous anticipation lighting up her face.

He does so, with great care, although it is with great difficulty that he takes his eyes from her face. It's almost a shame to tear the artfully folded wrapping paper, to pull the squarely tied ribbon from the box. Almost. He could drag out this process even further, just to watch her squirm, but, as usual, his curiosity trounces his mischievous streak.

The box is off-white and undecorated, possibly a spare from around the house. It drops no clues. The wrappings off, he hesitates, looks at her once more. She catches his eyes for a moment and smiles faintly, inclining her head toward the box.

"Open it."

He does. And it's a… it's. Curved and a slender white, a stick a little longer than the length of his palm. He's seen exactly one of these before in his life, little knowing at that time that it would precede by roughly eight-and-a-half months one of the greatest gifts, the greatest challenges of his life. He takes this one from the box and turns it over with great care in his hands, bringing into the light a small, pink plus sign at one end.

Oh. _Oh._

Raises his eyes to her, he finds her already watching him. Watching his hands with a kind of eager nervousness, watching for his reaction. And so the smile she finds on his face is utterly rewarding, half-dazed and yet completely awed. Reminiscent of the Valentine's Day so long ago that she carved a permanent space out for him in her dresser drawers.

"Merry Christmas," she says, softly, and leans in. With astonishment and the knowledge that there will be no sleep for him, for either of them, tonight, he kisses her back. Wedding rings tangled between their clasped hands.

Merry Christmas, indeed.

* * *

****


End file.
